


a heart and mind at war

by Pure_Anon



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Based on the Hartford production, Canon Compliant, F/M, Longing from afar, Pining, Unreliable Narrator, Unrequited Love, drink every time there's an em dash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28301439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pure_Anon/pseuds/Pure_Anon
Summary: No one is more taken with Anya’s transformation than Gleb as he watches her from afar.(Anastasia script, page 94)Gleb disguises himself as an usher in order to enter the opera house. This, of course, means he must watch what occurs in the foyer before Swan Lake begins.
Relationships: Anya | Anastasia Romanov/Gleb Vaganov
Comments: 10
Kudos: 24





	a heart and mind at war

**Author's Note:**

> In the Hartford production, Gleb disguises himself as an usher and he is present in the short scene before Quartet at the Ballet. In addition, Anya's ballet dress in Hartford was light pink, not blue.
> 
>   
> 

The usher's uniform he'd stolen grants Gleb invisibility as he skulks through the opera house. He familiarizes himself with the building, finding what he could use to his advantage should he need it. When the hour grows late, he heads to the main foyer.

He studies the deposed royals as they begin to enter. He had worried his heavy accent and beard might give him away next to the easy French and smooth faces of the other ushers, but he soon realizes there was no need. The ex-nobles are much too concerned with themselves to give notice to anyone so beneath them.

It infuriates him how stubbornly they cling to the remnants of their former lives. The world had cast them aside, and they refused to adapt, to even _consider_ change. They lived in a faded mockery of their former lives, preferring wallowing in their past instead of working industrially. He doesn't understand why Anya — 

He fixes his eyes firmly on the doors, so he is the first to notice when the former empress enters.

Maria Feodorovna sweeps into the opera house like the ruler she no longer is. She holds her head as proudly if she were still the centerpiece of the Russian court, as if _nothing_ had changed. The murmurs of hushed adoration that surround her sicken him, but she pays them no heed. She is as cool and dispassionate as ice, as untouchable as the stars, every inch the heavenly leader of Russia.

His Russian blood should be boiling. He _should_ be consumed with rage, with a fervor that would drive him to do his duty. He knows what he should be feeling and yet —

And yet, the sorrow etched in her face saps the rage he longs to feel.

He's seen that look before. His mother had born that same expression when she'd broken the news of his father's death. It had deepened when he'd countered with the news that he was headed for the front. She had worn it when he'd left, and perhaps, wears it still — he hasn’t seen her in so long.

The similarities between the two women are not something he wants to think about.

Gleb tears himself away from the sight of the ex-empress. His eyes catch on the Countess Lily and her consort, and he feels himself flush as he sees them send each other their _sign_. The excessive display he'd been forced to witness was probably forever fixed in his mind, but he supposed it had been worth it. He'd discovered that Anya would be here, after all. It had to be worth it.

He spots the second conman — _Dmitry_ — he recalls, hurrying through the crowd, but Anya is nowhere in sight. Dmitry's shoes are untied, and when directed to tie his shoelaces by the other conman, he makes a nuisance of himself by kneeling in the middle of the crowd to fix it. Gleb indulges in a scowl, and returns to scanning the crowd. He can't have missed her. Not when he'd —

She enters, and his world falls away.

He's always found her beautiful, _always_ , from the moment she'd first looked up at him in the snow. But she hadn't — she hadn't looked like _this_ before.

He hadn't — he hadn't _thought_. He hadn't thought to prepare for what the sight of her would do to him (and he shouldn't have had to prepare, he reminds himself, because he _shouldn't_ be feeling this.) His mouth is dry and his heart is pounding so loudly that he's almost surprised she can't hear it. He can't take his eyes away from her as she steps further into the room. She's nothing less than radiant, and he wants —

He _wants_ —

He wants to worship her on his knees. He wants to push her to the wall and kiss her until she can't think. He wants to kiss her until all thoughts of the past and lost princesses are driven from her head, until there's nothing left but the present and the two of them. He wants her to lo —

And he forces his eyes away from her, because he shouldn't be thinking about this, shouldn't be _wanting_ her, because this is _not_ what he's come to do.

Gleb makes himself look at her again. He cannot allow himself to get caught up in foolish and impossible fantasies. He needs to note her appearance objectively, to think of her as a _target_. To think of her as anything else would be dangerous.

There's a stark contrast between the street sweeper he'd met in Russia and the polished young woman before him now. Anya moves through the room with a grace that almost appears unpracticed; he doubts anyone but him notices that it is not innate. She holds herself in a manner very similar to the former empress. Her posture, the tilt of her chin, her composure — all painfully like the dowager empress's. He wonders how many hours of study it had taken to perfect. And her dress —

Her dress makes her look like a princess, and that, he supposes, is the point. Draped in layers of soft pink, she looks like something out of a fairytale. The shade of her dress brings to mind information he must have learned once, long ago; the grand duchesses had favored pastel court dresses, had draped themselves in tones of pink and lavender. The cut of her dress is modern, but it calls to mind the long-gone glamour of the Russian court.

The conmen have done their job well, he thinks bitterly.

Anya stops in front of Dmitry (who is _still_ tying his shoes) and waits until he looks up. And then —

She _smiles_.

She had smiled at Gleb before, but not — not like _this_. Not with such fondness, not with a smile that grows larger the longer he watches, not with such a look of —

In Russia, he had dared, with the painful sweetness of dawning hope, to let himself believe that he might make her smile like that one day.

In France, he realizes that he never will.

By coming here, he has forfeited all right to her smiles. It doesn't matter that he has good intentions; that he's only trying to save her, because she won't see it like that. She'll only see a man who ruthlessly dragged her away from her dream. He'll be lucky if she even deigns to _look_ at him, much less smile.

He can't see the conman's face from where he stands, and he wonders if Dmitry's smiling too. If he's smiling — is he smiling at Anya? Or is he smiling at his creation?

The conman jolts up, and offers Anya his arm. She takes it, still smiling, and Gleb wants, suddenly, fiercely, for her to look at him. He knows that this desire is foolish, but —

He finally understands why the knights of old would be willing to die for one glance from their lady.

She keeps her eyes on Dmitry as she walks past, and he pushes down the disappointment that chokes him. Her seeing him would only lead to his mission failing. Her eyes would narrow with hate, and she'd flee before he had time to react. He knows this but —

But it _hurts_ to see her smile up at Dmitry, hurts to see her cling to his arm. It hurts even more because it is so terribly _easy_ to imagine himself in Dmitry's place.

They could have gone to the ballet together, in Russia. He would have worn his best suit, and though she wouldn't have had such finery on as she did tonight, he still wouldn't have been able to take his eyes off her. He would have treated her to champagne, and they would have discussed Swan Lake in hushed tones before the curtains rose. He would have put his arm around her during the tragic moments. He would have walked her home, after, and he would have kissed her. It could all have been so lovely.

But she had run, and he had followed, and it was impossible, now.

Anya turns back a little before the entrance to the theater, and fear and need commingle in him for a moment, until he realizes that she's only turned back to adjust the conman's bow tie. Something so simple shouldn't make his heart hurt so, but —

Her action is _intimate_. The way her fingers linger on the conman’s collar makes it clear that this is not the first time she’s done this, and the way he quietly succumbs to her attentions makes it clear that he has come to expect this as a matter of course. It’s a tender moment amid the turmoil of the foyer, and as they exit the room, arm in arm, they look for all the world like lovers.

They probably _are_ lovers, he tells himself. No, they certainly are. Of course they are. The conman is handsome enough, he supposes, and Anya probably regards him as her savior for bringing her to Paris to reunite her with her “family.” He wonders bitterly if Anya has any idea of just how much the conman is using her. 

The foyer has emptied while he was lost in thought, and he hastens to close the door with the other ushers. What he has seen should not — _does not_ matter. Nothing that has happened this night has any bearing on his mission.

He will complete his mission, one way or another.

He _must_.

Love is not what revolution’s for, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> For Christmas, I give you canon Gleb angst. Enjoy!
> 
> My tumblr can be found at pureanonofficial.tumblr.com


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